


Life Is Not A Song

by DKNC



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Pre-Canon, Stark family feels, and so does cloudsinmycoffee9, and this is for her!, because I like those
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6690415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/pseuds/DKNC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a birthday present for the beautiful cloudsinmycoffee9 who does all the proofreading of my fics. So if it has a million typos, it's because I didn't make her edit her own gift! :-)</p><p>Ned Stark is in a foul mood. Winterfell is experiencing an uncharacteristic heat wave, he had a terrible argument with his wife on the eve of her name day, his oldest two children have behaved badly, there's been a fire, and now half of Catelyn's name day is over, and he hasn't even laid eyes on her. When he accidentally overhears a conversation in which his children confront the truth that their parents' wedding really was nothing like a romantic song, Ned does a lot of thinking about past events, decisions, and actions and present tensions and insecurities. By the time Catelyn's name day comes to an end, he decides his life is most definitely not a song. But is that a bad thing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life Is Not A Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cloudsinmycoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudsinmycoffee/gifts).



Servants scurried out of his way as he strode down the corridor of the Great Keep with mumbled, perfunctory ‘milords’ after one glance at his face, and Ned Stark couldn’t really blame them. He was tired, angry, irritated and a whole host of other bitter things he preferred not to give name to. As one poor chambermaid actually made eye contact with him, he stopped her from fleeing by putting a hand on her arm.

“Tell me where Lady Stark is.” he said entirely too sharply. Then realizing he had actually just physically accosted a young girl, he abruptly dropped her arm. “If you have seen her,” he added, trying to soften his voice.

Judging by the girl’s face, he had likely failed in that attempt. Nevertheless, she did her level best to look up at him as she stammered, “She . . . she took the babe out, milord. He wouldn’t settle this morning, and she said something about the both of them needing air.”

Ned nodded acknowledgement of the maid’s words, and she nearly ran down the corridor away from him.

 _Air. We all need air,_ he thought grimly. The recent uncharacteristic dry, hot spell had frayed everyone’s nerves. While Catelyn protested it wasn’t truly hot, she had admitted that it was the warmest she’d been outside of her chambers here in the North and that none of their garments were truly suited for the weather. Ned pulled uncomfortably at the neck of his shirt. He wore no doublet or jacket of any kind and still the material was soaked with perspiration and stuck miserably to his skin.

 _Where would she go with Rickon?_ he wondered, returning to the issue of his missing wife. She wasn’t truly missing, of course. A woman as dutiful as Catelyn would never simply disappear regardless of how unhappy she might be with him or her situation. His tired, overwrought mind drifted dangerously toward thoughts of a young woman who had done precisely that all those years ago— _Promise me, Ned_ —but he quickly pushed those memories away, something he’d become quite adept at over the years, at least while awake.

Today was his lady wife’s name day. She was three and thirty today, and he knew her name days bothered her since she’d passed thirty. Never mind that he was already four and thirty or that she still looked remarkably like the maiden he’d wed at Riverrun, she lamented becoming old, and he had no idea what to say to her to ease what he considered a nonsensical concern. He knew she wished to have another babe. Rickon had been weaned for several moons now, and he watched her eyes darken every time her moonblood came. He would like another child a well, but a part of him felt relief each time she bled. The babe she had lost between Bran and Rickon had been difficult for her, and her labor with Rickon had been long and painful. She’d not left her bed for four days after his birth, and that had frightened Ned. He would welcome any babes Cat gave to him, for his children were ever a wonder to him—it continuously astounded him how his heart effortlessly seemed to expand to welcome each new babe with no less adoration than all the children born before. Yet, he would not willingly risk Catelyn for even one more child. She mattered more than any number of unborn Starks. He didn’t know how to explain that to her, either. When he had attempted to assure her that she was his wife and that he valued her for herself alone, she had looked hurt rather than comforted. _You do fear me incapable of bearing another child then, don’t you?_ she had said softly. _But I can do it. I will give you more trueborn sons, my lord, before I grow too old._

 _More trueborn sons._ He sighed. He wondered how many sons Cat would need to give him before she no longer felt the sting of the son who was not her own. He feared it was an unattainable number. He could not dwell on that, however. Today was her name day, and he had allowed it to start very poorly. He must find her and attempt to make amends. It bothered him that the sun had been up for several hours now and he had not laid eyes on his lady wife, much less held her or kissed her lips.

He’d been awakened before dawn by several men pounding on his chamber door. _My chamber, not hers,_ he thought with a scowl, recalling their argument the previous night. He wondered if they’d awakened poor Catelyn first, knocking at her door because they expected to find him there. Quite likely, they had—one more reason for him to feel guilty. Lightning had struck the thatch roof of one of the smaller buildings in the castle. Thunder and lightning with no rain seemed terribly unfair to Ned, but they’d experienced it on several occasions since this odd weather had descended upon them nearly a fortnight ago. In any event, with everything miserably dry, the roof had gone up like tinder and the fire threatened to spread quickly. He had rushed outside to help the men battling the flames and then spent his morning dealing with the aftermath and assessing the damage. Thank the gods no one had been injured, but by the time he’d made it back to the Great Keep and gone to Catelyn’s chambers, he’d found them empty. She had not been in the Hall either. Nor had any of his children, so he’d returned to the Great Keep to look for her. Now it seemed he must search the castle grounds.

As he walked outside, there was no noticeable difference in the oppressive heaviness and heat in the air from inside the Keep. Not a breath of wind stirred it. Recalling what his wife had told him days ago, he turned toward the godswood. Ordinarily, it was the last place he’d seek her out, but having grown up in a wooded place which frequently saw hot summers, she’d told him that among the trees was generally the best place to find some measure of relief from the heat. Mayhap, for Rickon’s sake, she would put aside her uneasiness in Winterfell’s godswood to seek out shade and some modicum of coolness for their fractious babe.

He’d been a terror last night. Rickon was easily the most difficult of all their children to settle when he was out of sorts. Only Arya had come close to being as troublesome at that age. And like Arya, when he was distraught, Rickon only wanted Catelyn. The other three had allowed themselves to be soothed by himself or even the nursemaids at times, but Arya and Rickon had always screamed for their mother, even after being weaned. Ned smiled as he recalled that wasn’t entirely true in Arya’s case. Before Bran’s birth, she had demanded Catelyn’s attention exclusively, but Bran came along when Arya wasn’t even quite a year and a half old, and poor Catelyn had tearfully given up nursing their little daughter in order to provide adequate nourishment for her newborn brother. That’s when another brother was found to have the ability to placate an angry Arya as well as her mother did—Jon. He’d only been about six years old then himself, but he’d adored the sister who looked so like him from her birth, and when he discovered she seemed to adore him as well, their bond had been forged. Catelyn hadn’t been pleased at all about it, of course, and it was as much a testament to her extreme exhaustion as to her tolerance that she allowed the boy to play with Arya so that she could care for Bran or get five minutes’ peace. Ned had hoped that Jon’s care for Arya might foster some warmth between his wife and Jon, but that was not to be. Too many loose-tongued servants and soldiers made too many comments as the children grew about the lord only having those two that had his look. Having her daughter so frequently mentioned in the same breath as her husband’s bastard had done nothing to endear Jon to Catelyn.

Poor Catelyn had come to her chambers very late last night as it had taken her well over an hour to get Rickon to even lie in his cot.

“He may look like a Tully,” she’d sighed when she’d finally come through the door, “But the child is you, Eddard Stark. I swear the poor thing behaves as if he will die at any moment from the heat!” She’d shaken her head. “But then he won’t lie down and insists upon my holding him right up against me which only serves to make us both even warmer!”

“Well,” Ned had said, smiling at her. “I sympathize with the lad there, Cat. You know I’ve no love of the heat, but I’d suffer it gladly to have you hold me against you.”

She’d laughed at him then, and those blue eyes had sparkled in a teasing manner in spite of her exhaustion. “Well come and help me out of this dress, my lord, and mayhap I’ll oblige you!”

Ned wished he could return to that moment and stop the knock which came on her door just after she’d spoken those words.

Walking through the godswood in the general direction of the heart tree, he heard voices off to his left. Young voices. Voices which seemed to be shushing one another. Curiosity peaked, he turned and carefully made his way toward the sounds. He was not terribly surprised to find that the voices came from a small, secluded clearing some distance from any of the more generally traveled paths in the godswood. He and his own siblings had used this very spot as a place to speak away from adult ears, to imagine adventures, or plot minor insurrections against authority—occasionally fairly major ones on the parts of Brandon and Lyanna. He smiled to realize it appeared his own children had discovered the usefulness of this place to do the same.

With a touch of guilt that was quickly outweighed by his curiosity, he stole close enough to see precisely who was here and was rather startled to see all of his children save Rickon. Robb and Jon stood beside each other with rather serious expressions on their thirteen year old faces looking down at an angry-appearing Arya and Bran sitting on the ground in front of them. Bran held some sort of cloth to his eye. Sansa sat on a large rock beside them looking concerned. Theon Greyjoy wasn’t present, so Ned surmised this was some sort of family conference.

“Now will one of you tell me what happened?” Robb asked sternly, “Or do I have to bring Father into this?” Ned had to swallow a laugh. Robb’s voice was no doubt meant imitate his own, but likely would have sounded more threatening had it not cracked a bit on the word ‘Father.’ Robb’s voice was growing deeper all the time, but as it changed, it did sometimes squeak and crack, and Ned knew Robb hated that. Jon’s voice was getting deeper as well, but not nearly as dramatically, and he was not plagued by the sudden changes in octave.

“She hit me!” Bran said, filled with the sort of righteous indignation only child of six and a half can muster.

“You deserved it!” Arya flung back. “Telling filthy lies about Mother!” 

Just past her eighth name day, Arya had a tendency to take on the aspect of an avenging spirit when she felt she or anyone she loved had been wronged, but Ned could not for the life of him imagine any of the children saying anything bad about their mother. Arya herself was the one most likely to speak critically of Catelyn’s attitude toward Jon, but even she was careful in that, and Bran . . . Bran rarely spoke ill of anyone, and certainly not of his lady mother.

“I just said what Maester Luwin told me!” he shouted. “You asked what we were talking about, and I told you! And then you hit me!”

“Hush, both of you,” Jon said more quietly than anyone who’d previously spoken. “If you keep shouting like that, half the castle will be here, and Robb won’t have to fetch Father.”

Arya mumbled something under her breath. 

“What was that?” Robb asked her.

“I said . . . if Maester Luwin said that, then he’s a liar, too.”

“Arya Stark!” Sansa exclaimed, blue eyes going wide with shock. At ten and a half, she looked more like Catelyn every day, and she even sounded like her as she said, “You shouldn’t say such things about Maester Luwin! He’s a good, honorable man, and he . . .”

“I didn’t say he said it! Bran did!” Arya protested.

Robb rolled his eyes.”Bran . . . just tell us what you said to her.”

Bran looked down. “I was looking in one of those family books. You know the ones—where the maesters write stuff about the Starks they serve?”

Jon and Robb both nodded while the girls looked rather blank. Arya had almost no interest in reading unless it was of historical conquerors and heroes, and Sansa preferred grand romantic tales to dry family histories and genealogies.

“I was reading stuff written by the maester who was here before Maester Luwin. A man named Walys.” He paused. Arya glared at him, but Robb nodded encouragement for him to continue. “He wrote about successfully aiding Lord Stark in arranging a match for his heir with the Tullys of Riverrun. And how the marriage would further the interests and standing of House Stark in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“That doesn’t sound very interesting, Bran,” Sansa said, “But I don’t see why Arya would . . .”

“It didn’t make sense to me,” Bran interrupted. “Because Robb is Father’s heir, he isn’t betrothed to anybody from Mother’s house, and I told Maester Luwin I didn’t even think Mother had any girl relatives except Aunt Lysa and she’s married already and too old for Robb besides and . . .”

“Oh!” Robb exclaimed. “Father isn’t the Lord Stark Maester Walys was writing about.” He grinned at his little brother. “You’re so smart all the time, sometimes I forget you’re only six. It’s amazing you can even read that stupid book. But that bit was about . . .”

“Our grandfather,” Bran said. “I know. Maester Luwin told me. He said Maester Walys helped Lord Rickard Stark arrange a match between his heir and Catelyn Tully of Riverrun.”

“Oh!” Sansa squealed. “You found the record of Mother and Father’s betrothal! How romantic!”

Robb and Jon looked at each other, each seeming to want the other to speak, but Bran responded. “No,” he said. “Mother was supposed to marry Brandon Stark, the uncle I’m named after. The one who died in Robert’s Rebellion. I guess he died before she could marry him.”

“Liar!” Arya yelled, shoving her brother. As they were both sitting, she didn’t do him any damage, but he lunged at her in response, and Robb quickly grabbed Bran while Jon grabbed Arya. “Mother loves Father! She would never marry somebody else!” Arya shouted as Jon pulled her away.

It had never occurred to Ned to discuss the origins of his marriage to Catelyn with their children. Nor had it occurred to him to give the maester any particular instructions on how to approach it. None of them had ever asked him about it, and he wondered if they’d asked Catelyn. Speaking of any of the events which took place just prior to and during the Rebellion pained him still. Unfortunately, those events included his own wedding.

Arya was still spitting at Bran and struggling to get loose from Jon while Bran protested that he wasn’t a liar and Mother really was going to marry Uncle Brandon and Arya should go ask her instead of hitting people.

“Mother would never betray Father! Never!” Arya insisted. “They love each other. And only each other. Even if Father did . . .” She let that sentence trail off and looked down, her grey eyes dark. 

Ned felt as if he’d been struck. He could never escape what his decision thirteen years ago had done to Catelyn. He certainly couldn’t escape what it had done to Jon. He chose not to dwell on it, preferring to concentrate on the fact that Jon was safe, and that both his wife and this boy who was his blood but not hers seemed content enough in their lives. However, he almost never considered what his acknowledgement of Jon as his son had done to his children. Arya’s expression as she tried to reconcile her defense of her parents’ unquestionable fidelity with her relatively recently acquired full understanding of what Jon’s bastardy meant shamed him.

“Your parents do love each other, Arya.” It was Jon who spoke—his voice still quiet even as he struggled to hold his little sister. “That’s plain enough to anyone who sees them together. And you are right. Lady Stark would never betray Father in that way.”

 _In the way you believe I betrayed both my lady wife and your mother. Oh, Jon,_ Ned thought sadly, looking at the long face that looked so like his own. Jon looked more like Lyanna, if anyone cared to look closely, just as Arya looked more like himself than she did her aunt, but people found it much easier to compare both children to Stark ancestors of the same gender, a fact for which Ned was quite grateful.

“But this betrothal happened before Father and Mother were ever married, Arya,” Robb attempted to explain calmly. “Before they even knew each other.”

“Mother was in love with Father’s brother?” Sansa asked, a rather horrified expression on her face.

“No!” Robb shook his head and looked rather exasperated. “People don’t get married for love, Sansa,” he said. “Not lords and ladies anyway. They get married to make alliances and to bring honor to their Houses.”

“But in the songs . . .”

“Life isn’t a song, Sansa.” Those words were Jon’s, and while they were still quiet, Ned could hear a hint of bitterness which broke his heart. All of his children would someday have to learn that life was not a song because in spite of the current heat, winter was coming. It always did. But it pained Ned that Jon already had to know more of that harsh truth than his siblings.

“Mother didn’t love dead Uncle Brandon,” Arya said clearly. “And she wouldn’t have married him anyway. Because she would have met Father and told everyone that she loved HIM.”

Jon and Robb looked at each other somewhat helplessly, and Ned, in spite his distress at this particular conversation among his children found himself rather entertained by Arya’s insistence upon Catelyn’s unwavering love for him. No one would ever accuse his second daughter of being the least bit romantic. She made fun of Sansa for her romantic notions. But in spite of being the child most likely to give Catelyn fits and to argue outright with her mother about any number of things, Arya was always the first to come to her mother’s defense. Ned doubted Catelyn realized that any more than she and Arya seemed to realize how alike they were in some ways.

Finally, Robb sighed. “All right, if everybody can just sit still and not yell and not push or hit anybody . . .” He looked at Arya who glared back, “I’ll try to explain it. Or at least what I know. Father never talks about the Rebellion. And all this happened around then. And Mother doesn’t like to talk about things Father doesn’t talk about.”

Ned hadn’t really thought about it, but he supposed that was true. Catelyn generally took her lead from him when it came to sharing information with people and that likely extended to their children. She adored their children, of course, and he had no doubt she would die for them it were asked of her. But she would not compromise her loyalty to him. She never questioned him in front of them. She would not tell them tales she thought he would not want them to hear.

“So, Uncle Brandon was supposed to be Lord of Winterfell after our grandfather Lord Rickard died,” Robb started.

“But Father’s the Lord of Winterfell,” Bran interrupted.

“Bran!” Robb said in exasperation, “I just said for everybody to keep quiet and let me tell it. Father is Lord of Winterfell because Brandon died. If he was alive he’d be Lord of Winterfell. Or if he had children before he died, the oldest son would be Lord of Winterfell. That’s how it works. I know you know that.”

“I guess I never thought about it,” Bran said thoughtfully. “So if you die, I have to be Lord of Winterfell?”

“Yes,” Robb said, rolling his eyes. “Unless I get married and have heirs of my own.”

“I don’t want you to die, Robb,” Bran said hurriedly.

“Good to know, little brother.”

“I’d miss you, and I don’t want to be Lord of Winterfell. I want to be a knight and see the world and maybe even be in the Kingsguard someday.”

“Bran, that’s wonderful, but will please let Robb tell this story? I truly want to know it.” Sansa’s voice revealed her slight impatience with her younger brother, but her expression was filled with thoughtful curiosity. More than two years older than Arya, she was old enough to know that talk of betrothals would come for her within a few short years.

“So, our Aunt Lyanna . . .”

“Who looked like me and Father never talks about . . .” Arya put in. It startled Ned to hear her say that so matter-of-factly, but it was true he didn’t like to speak of Lyanna. It was both unbearably painful and also dangerous. He didn’t trust himself to keep everything buried as deeply as he must if he spoke too much of the sister he had lost. 

“Yes, Aunt Lyanna,” Robb continued, looking as if he doubted he’d ever actually get to tell the tale. “She was taken by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. She was betrothed to King Robert at the time, except he was Lord Baratheon then, and Mad Aerys Targaryen was king. Anyway, Prince Rhaegar must have been as mad as his father because even though he had a wife and two children, he kidnapped our aunt.”

“Why?” Bran asked.

Robb and Jon looked at each other. “No one really knows, Bran,” Jon said softly. “But it’s never a good thing for a man to steal a woman. It’s an evil and dishonorable thing for a man to take a woman away for any reason. The prince dishonored himself, our aunt, his wife, and King Robert when he did that.”

Jon looked very thoughtful, and Ned hoped fervently he never thought upon Rhaeagar Targaryen’s actions too closely as parallels for actions he ascribed to Ned.

“Obviously, such a crime couldn’t be ignored,” Robb said. “Our grandfather and Uncle Brandon went to King’s Landing to demand that the prince give our aunt back. But instead, the mad king had them executed.”

“Like Father does with criminals?” Bran asked. Bran had never seen an execution. Ned supposed he could spare the boy that grim reality for another year or so at least.

“Yes. Except they probably used a headsman,” Robb said. “I don’t imagine the king did his own executions any more than King Robert does.”

 _You can’t imagine how they died,_ Ned thought grimly. _I don’t want you ever to imagine._

“When do Father and Mother come into the story?” Sansa asked.

“Now,” Robb said. “Mother and Uncle Brandon were already betrothed, you see. But now he and our grandfather were dead, and that made Father Lord of Winterfell. He and King Robert and Lord Arryn all called their banners and declared war on the Targaryens. But first Father kept his father’s promise to Lord Tully by marrying Mother. Then Lord Tully and his bannermen joined them in the Rebellion.”

“So they fell in love very quickly?” Sansa asked, looking a bit confused.

“No,” Robb said softly. “They got married very quickly. Falling in love took longer.”

Just as Ned was marveling at the accuracy of his son’s insight, Arya spoke up for the first time in awhile. “That’s not right!” she protested. “They do love each other. And why else would they get married if they didn’t fall in love? You said they didn’t even know each other before that. And I wouldn’t marry somebody I didn’t even know!”

“Well . . . they had to, you see,” Robb hesitated. “For the alliance—which was why the betrothal was made in the first place, and then . . .”

“Oh, poor Mother!” Sansa said suddenly. “Her betrothed had just died, and her lord father made her marry someone she didn’t even know?”

“Sansa, she married FATHER!” Arya protested. “Of course, she wanted to marry him. Nobody tells Mother what to do! She’s the Lady of Winterfell!”

Jon actually laughed. “Well, she was a lady of Riverrun then, but I understand what you mean, little sister.” He had long since released his grip on her, and now he ran a hand over her head to ruffle her hair. “Lady Stark’s word is heeded by pretty much everyone in Winterfell.” He grinned at Arya. “Even you, most of the time. But, Arya, your lady mother does obey our father. You know she does. And she would have obeyed her father as well.”

Arya bit her lip. “Father never orders Mother around.”

“He does in some things. Your mother doesn’t want me at Winterfell. You know that’s true.”

“She won’t make you leave, though! She won’t . . .”

“No. She won’t. Because Father has told her I am to remain. And Lady Stark obeys her husband.” Jon’s words again had a slight hint of bitterness which hurt Ned to hear.

“But Father loves her,” Arya said in a small voice. “I know he does. In spite of . . .” She bit her lip once more and refused to look up.

“I believe they love each other, too, Arya,” Sansa said softly. “It isn’t a very romantic tale, is it? But still, they seem happy enough now.” She sounded a little uncertain, though.

“They are happy,” Robb said, not sounding uncertain at all. Sansa, Arya, and Bran looked up at him. Robb’s cheeks flushed just slightly. “I asked her once,” he said, almost inaudibly. “Mother.”

The other children leaned forward almost imperceptibly at that, and Ned found himself leaning forward as well.

After a moment, Robb continued, “Jon and I heard all this stuff a long time ago, and we were pretty confused about it, too. So finally, I just asked Mother why she and Father got married. She talked a lot about family, duty, and honor which isn’t really surprising. And I asked her what about . . . love?” Robb looked embarrassed to have ever asked his mother such a thing and suddenly got quiet.

 _How did she answer you, Robb?_ Ned knew Catelyn loved him—knew it as surely as he knew his own name. But he also knew she had once loved Brandon, and he sometimes wondered in what ways he failed to measure up in her eyes to his handsome, bold, older brother. He also knew she still sometimes closed herself off to him—after all these years—for resentment or fear or maybe both of the woman he would not name. _How did she answer you, Robb?_

“Well? What did she say?” Arya said finally.

“She laughed,” Robb said. “And then she said, ‘You asked me why we married, Robb. And love had nothing to do with it. In truth, it rarely does. However, if you wish to know why I thank the old gods and the new daily that I am wed to your father, then love has a great deal to do with it.’ Then she smiled, told me she also prayed that I would find such love in my own marriage some day and told me to go outside and play. I guess I was about nine, maybe? But I can remember exactly what she said and how she smiled.”

“So it isn’t a terrible story,” Sansa said. “Even if it wouldn’t make much of a song. And I know this sounds terrible, but I’m glad Father is our father instead of Uncle Brandon.”

Robb shrugged. “If Mother had married Uncle Brandon, they’d have had other children. We wouldn’t exist. Well . . . none of us except Jon maybe.”

“Don’t talk about such things, Robb!” Sansa said. “It’s not honorable to talk about it!” She looked almost pained then. “I’m sorry, Jon. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just . . .”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Jon said, his expression now closed off and almost unreadable. “Your parents did marry each other, they do love each other, and that’s that. So no more fighting among any of you on your lady mother’s name day. You’ve all got feast to go to tonight, and I’m sure everyone would prefer a lack of violence at the high table.”

“I wish you got to sit with us tonight, Jon!” Arya exclaimed.

Jon shrugged. “It’s Lady Stark’s day,” he said flatly. “She should have it the way she wants.” He gave Arya a smile. “Besides, sometimes it’s more fun sitting down with the men. I learn a lot more dirty jokes than when I’m stuck up there in front with you lot!” 

The children were all beginning to stand up so Ned shook himself from his contemplation of their words and moved quickly away before he was discovered. He felt a bit like a guilty child himself, knowing full well he’d have the boys thrashed if he caught them listening to a private conversation of his. But he had never heard the circumstances of his marriage told as a tale from one person to someone else, and he’d found it rather enlightening to watch his children sit around Robb and soak it up as they did with Old Nan and her tales of giant spiders and dragons of ice. While many of the details had been omitted or even incorrect, Robb’s narrative had certainly hit upon the essence of his and Catelyn’s beginnings during those awful days, and Ned dearly hoped the words Robb attributed to his mother reflected the truth of where they had come. He certainly thanked the gods for his wife every day, even if he also sometimes begged their forgiveness for it—for the sin of loving so dearly what was never meant to be his.

He quickly walked to the area of the heart tree, and seeing no sign of Catelyn or Rickon, left the godswood. Catelyn would not wander through the deeper parts of the godswood alone. He decided to stop by the kennels before returning to the Great Keep to see if the boys had completed their penance before holding their impromptu family council in the godswood.

“All the kennels are clean, Lord Stark,” came the reply. “They were here very early. Said the shouting about the fire woke them and they’d just as soon get started.”

Ned had smiled at that. “So Jon is finished with his part for this week then.” The boys were to clean out the kennels together. “I shall go to the Great Hall and see if Robb has completed the second part of his sentence.”

The kennel master shook his head. “I can tell you he hasn’t.” When Ned frowned, he quickly added, “Don’t be angry at the lad, my lord. With Lady Stark’s name day feast this evening, the Hall will be bustling with servants all day—assigned to make certain it’s gleaming. I know you want to teach the young lord a lesson. I do, too. She’s my little girl, after all. But to be scrubbing floors in there today with half the castle in there watching him do it—that’s more shame than he deserves, don’t you think? My wife told him he could scrub tomorrow. Gods know the floor will be filthy after tonight’s feast so it isn’t like Lord Robb’s getting off easy.”

“No,” Ned said thoughtfully. “But you and your wife are very kind to think about any shame my son might feel. The group of boys who teased your daughter and threw dog dirt at her certainly did not consider her shame.”

“Your sons did not throw anything, milord. Nor call Ena names.”

“They did nothing to stop it, however. No son of mine should stand by and allow a girl to be mistreated. And no Lord of Winterfell should ever allow such behavior to go unpunished.” After a moment, he added, “All of the boys involved who assaulted Ena were whipped.”

“Yes, milord,” the man said, bowing his head. “Thank you, milord.”

Ned sighed. He did think his boys had been truly contrite, but that did not excuse them. When Oda, a woman who’d been a kitchen maid in Winterfell at least as long as Ned had been its lord had come knocking on Catelyn’s door crying that a group of boys had her daughter cornered near the kennels and were flinging dog shit at her as they called her names, Ned had not expected to discover Robb and Jon at the scene. Ena, the daughter of the kitchen maid and kennel master was about four and ten. She was not a pretty girl, and her facial features did have a rather unfortunate resemblance to the hunting hounds her father looked after. She’d been teased about it mercilessly all her life, and Ned thought it likely that his children had participated in the name calling at some point over the years. However, last night, a group of older boys—all about fifteen or sixteen--whom Robb and Jon had apparently sneaked out of their rooms to meet, had asked the girl to sneak outside and drink ale with them. When she’d come down to the kennels, however, they had begun insulting her for their amusement, and she’d become angry and thrown dirt at them. Enraged, the boy had grabbed handfuls of dog feces to fling at her, and his friends joined in. The noise woke her mother who came running to the Great Keep.

Robb and Jon had been standing slightly apart from the altercation, not running away, not intervening, not calling for help—simply standing there in silence with worried looks upon their faces. It seemed the nastiness of the drunken older boys caused them to fear intervening when they were so outnumbered and fear of punishment for having sneaked out to drink ale kept them from coming for help. Ned felt the first was understandable, but the second was not. The boys would clean the kennels weekly for the next moon’s turn. Robb would also scrub the floor of the Great Hall weekly for the next moon’s turn because that was Ena’s task. He would perform her labor for her because he had failed to protect her, and a lord has a duty to protect his smallfolk.

Catelyn had thought it favoritism, of course, when he’d told her what had occurred and how the boys were to be punished. She often questioned him about being harder on Robb than Jon when the boys misbehaved, but the discipline of his sons was his prerogative and she had long since accepted it, even if she didn’t like it. The fact that she blamed nearly all of Robb’s transgressions on Jon’s influence when Jon was more often the follower made him as angry as his unequal punishments made her. He grew tired of her forever telling him about the evils of bastard blood, and last night he had snapped that it was Stark blood flowing through both boys’ veins which should bloody well be enough to make them act with honor.

She’d gone silent a moment then before saying very softly. “I see. But only the boy with Tully blood must become a scullery maid. Good night, my lord.”

He’d left without saying another word and gone to sleep in his own chambers for the first time in a very long time. 

And today was her name day, and it was now past midday, and he still hadn’t seen her.

He found her in her chambers. She bid him enter when he knocked, and he opened the door to see her staring at three dresses laid out upon the bed and frowning. “My lord,” she said, looking up at him. Her voice wasn’t cold, but certainly more formal than she usually was with him in this room.

“My lady,” he replied softly. “Where is Rickon? I was told you’d taken him outside.”

She nodded. “I took him riding. It still amazes me that the one place I can get that child to be still is on horseback. He loves it so. Although he’s beginning to protest more and more that I do not ride with him at as rapid a pace as you will. He finally fell asleep, thank the gods.”

“So he’s in the nursery now?”

She nodded again and looked back toward the dresses. “I am afraid I shall melt in any of these with so many people in the Hall tonight. All the fabric of my nicer dresses is so heavy!”

He laughed in spite of the tension still between them. “I never thought to hear those words come out of your mouth here in Winterfell, Cat.”

She turned back toward him and smiled. Then her expression turned somewhat melancholy. “I suppose it is good that I still have words to make you laugh.”

“Catelyn . . .” He walked toward her and reached out for her hand. She allowed him to take it but didn’t clasp his back. “I should not have lost my temper with you last night. You did not deserve that, my lady.”

She pursed her lips slightly. “I was not especially kind to you, either, my lord.” She sighed. “It is an old argument and one we are unlikely to settle. We should put it behind us and move on to figuring out how not to roast alive at this godsforsaken dinner tonight.”

“Cat! It’s your name day! I don’t want you viewing your feast as something that must be survived! I want you to enjoy yourself, my love!” The endearment slipped out without intent on his part, but he meant his words.

“I am sorry, my love. I will smile. I promise. The children are more excited about the prospect of a feast than I am, and I do like to see them happy.”

“I like to see you happy.”

To his great surprise, a tear escaped her eyes at his words. “I know you do,” she said. “That’s what makes it hard sometimes.”

“Makes what hard?” She had lost him now. 

She bit her lip, and Ned was reminded of Arya when she’d struggled to express that she knew her father loved her mother in spite of her bastard brother’s existence.

“I know you love me,” Catelyn said softly, and Ned nearly jumped, wondering, not for the first time, if his wife could read his mind. “And I know you love all our children very much. But knowing that sometimes makes it hurt more that . . . that the sons I have given you are not . . . are not enough like you in the eyes of some.” Almost inaudibly, she added, “Maybe in your own eyes as well.”

Her words stunned him. He knew she worried that their boys looked more Tully than Stark. Worried that it bothered him, which was nonsense. She had never put it into these words before. Had he ever specifically told her that he would not change a thing about their sons? Not a single one of them?

“Catelyn . . .” he found himself unable to say anything more than her name—his throat closed around too many words that he wanted to say and needed to say, around words he must never say, around the words he’d heard his children speaking earlier. “Cat . . .”

“I just wish . . . I wish you could see how much he is like you!” she exclaimed suddenly. “For all he looks like me, I see you in him more every day! Gods know you are all he dreams of being! And he wants so much to please you. My gods, Ned. You could give him ten times the punishment you assign your bastard, and he would do it without complaint. But please don’t allow him to believe he isn’t good enough for you. Stark enough for you. That he must somehow be beaten down or molded into something good enough. Don’t allow our boy to believe that—for the love I know you bear him!”

Tears were falling down her cheeks now, and he stood there gaping at her. Did she truly believe that was how he felt? “Did . . . did Robb speak of this with you?” he managed to ask her.

She shook her head. “Not in a long time. Not since he and the other boy were small.”

“He never said such things to me,” Ned said quietly. _He didn’t come to me to ask if there was love between his parents either._ “He should have come to me. I thought he understood . . .” He shook his head. “He must understand. I always explain it to him.”

“Explain what?”

He took a deep breath. “Come and sit with me, Cat.”

Rather than allowing him to lead him to the chairs, she tossed the dresses out of the way, and pulled him down to sit beside her on the bed, not letting go of his hand. “I treat Jon the way my father treated me,” he said slowly. Her eyes darkened, and he realized he had said that precisely the wrong way. He also realized suddenly why he’d never explained it to her more clearly. “I treat Robb the way he treated Brandon,” he said hurriedly.

She remained silent, and Ned continued. “Brandon was his heir. Everything was to come to him. Winterfell, you, the titles, and the lands. Also the responsibility. I was to have none of it. Father was always twice as strict with Brandon. Consequences for his actions were always twice as severe. ‘A lord’s actions affect all his people. A lord must never act without thought for the consequences.’ He said that to Brandon repeatedly. As for me, he simply taught me to live with honor. To be honest in my dealings with all men and dutiful in the care of my family and whatever responsibilities I was given.” He shook his head. “I swear to you, Catelyn, that were Robb and Bran the two closest in age, you would accuse me of favoring Bran because I would treat him no differently than I do Jon.”

“No differently,” she said softly. “Although Bran is your trueborn son.”

“Do not mistake me,” he said. “I am well aware that Jon is a bastard. So is he. So are our children. And our children—yours and mine—they are the Starks of Winterfell. Nothing that is theirs will come to Jon. And I would not take anything from them ever. To give to Jon or to anyone else. But I would not have a child of my blood grow to be a man without knowing what honor means. Or without knowing what it is to have a father’s care and guidance even if he will never have a father’s name. So had Bran been old enough to swill ale and behave as a craven fool alongside Robb and Jon when that poor girl was being abused, he would have been cleaning kennels alongside them. But only Robb would be doing Ena’s labor for her. Because only Robb will one day be her lord, sworn to protect her and administer justice upon those who commit crimes against her. Lord of Winterfell. He needs to understand the responsibility of that Cat. Not just the title or the privilege. That is why I treat him differently from all of my children. He is a Stark, and he is my heir. I would have him be a better lord than his father is.”

She sat there silently, never taking her eyes from him. “You are a good lord, Ned,” she said after a moment. When he didn’t speak, she asked, “Why have you never told me this before? Last night was certainly not the first quarrel we’ve had about the severity of your punishments for Robb compared to Jon.”

Her use of Jon’s name surprised him. She didn’t use it often. She had been honest with him, even after his anger the night before, and she had listened to him. He decided to be as honest as he could with her. “Brandon . . .” he said. “I always think back on my father and Brandon when I am trying to teach Robb something about what it is to be a lord. To be fair, I recall much of what I learned from Jon Arryn as well, but Jon, too, knew that I would never be a high lord, and his lessons for me were not precisely the same as for Robert. In any case, the Vale is not the North. The Eyrie is not Winterfell. So mostly, as I’ve tried to rule in this place and teach my son, I’ve reached for my father—which isn’t easy as I simply wasn’t here very often after the age of eight. And what I draw most on from the times I was here . . . are the things he told Brandon, asked of Brandon, demanded of Brandon.” He took a deep breath and forced himself to look his wife in the eyes. “And I do not speak easily of Brandon to you, my lady.”

“Brandon is dead, Ned.”

“He was to have been your husband.”

“But he never was.”

The words Jon spoke to Arya about today’s feast came to Ned. _It’s Lady Stark’s day. She should have it the way she wants._ He recalled Robb’s words as well, the words he had said Catelyn spoke to him. But still, some small part of him wondered. Did Catelyn have a life she wanted? “Do you ever wish Brandon were here, Cat?” he asked suddenly.

“What? What sort of question is that, Ned? I’m not cold-hearted enough to be glad the man is dead! Mayhap, I would have had a fine life as his wife. I can’t know that answer. But if you are asking if I ever wish Brandon Stark were here in your place as my husband, then no. Never.”

“Not ever?”

“Not now. Not for a long time now. I wished he were there in the sept. I didn’t know you, and I didn’t want to wed a stranger, give him my maidenhead, and then send him off to war still essentially a stranger. It all seemed cruel.” She gave him a small smile. “I didn’t realize how blessed I was then. I was a foolish little girl who should have realized that life never is precisely what you think it will be, but if you simply open your eyes, you might find it’s better than you ever hoped.”

“I’ve hurt you. I’ve wronged you. Your life has hardly been a song.”

“A song! I may have been still foolish and naïve when we wed, my love, but I’ve been aware that life is not a song since my mother died when I was just about Sansa’s age.” She smiled then. “Sansa believes she’ll live a song, you know. Someday, she’ll learn differently, of course, but hopefully not before she realizes that a real life, while less poetic and melodic, is far more worthwhile.

He smiled back at his wife. His lady. His partner. His confidante. His lover. “Do you truly believe that, my lady? After all we’ve been through these many years?”

Her smile became a bit wickeder, and she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in for a long kiss. When their lips finally parted, she whispered, “No song has ever made me feel like that.”

Some tiny, nagging part of his mind wanted to ask her if kissing Brandon had made her feel like that. Catelyn had come to their marriage bed a maiden, but Brandon had spoken often enough of kissing her. Had she ever compared his kisses to Brandon’s and found them lacking? Stop it! he commanded himself. Catelyn loved him. They were both alive. They were together. They had five beautiful children together. Jon was here and safe. 

Ned’s secrets would not go away, and he resigned himself to the fact that Catelyn’s resentment of those secrets and her fear of Jon’s being some threat to their children would not go away either. Neither would his guilt or his lingering sense of competition with or inferiority to his dead brother. Brandon would never grow old. He’d be young, handsome, charming, and bold for eternity—like a hero in a song. But Catelyn had spoken truly. As his wife’s hands moved to remove the miserable, sweat-soaked shirt from his body, he knew well that their life was better than a song.

“So does this mean you’re not angry anymore?” he asked, smiling down at her when they were both naked on her bed. Both of their bodies glistened with a light sheen of sweat as the heat of the day accented the always warm temperatures in her rooms. Her skin seemed to glow, and he ghosted his lips over every inch of it, enjoying the way she’d move, or take in a sharp breath, or even giggle as he touched her in different places.

“I’m not very good at being angry at you, I’m afraid. I can’t do it for very long.” She said no more because her own lips were busy now, as were her hands, and Ned allowed himself to quit thinking and simply to feel.

Making love to her was always enjoyable—and surprisingly different in some ways each time even after all these years, in spite of the fact that they moved together like two dancers who’d learned all the steps years ago and knew precisely how to take turns leading each other. This afternoon, they moved rather lazily. The oppressive heat didn’t allow for much else, but after they’d teased each other with hands, lips, and tongues until neither could wait any longer, he raised himself above her and then lowered himself into her slowly at first, enjoying every pleasurable sensation of sinking deep inside her and feeling her surround him. Then he began moving, thrusting into her with abandon as she encouraged him with her hands on his hips, pulling her into him. When he felt her suddenly go still and then felt the tremors of her body beneath him, he let himself go as well, and gasped as his seed spilled inside her.

Normally, he liked to hold her close to him after making love, but he honestly did feel like he was on fire. He pressed a deep kiss to her lips and then stood up while his heart was still racing, finding little relief from the heat by standing.

She laughed at him, her own breathing still not quite returned to normal and her face flushed from their lovemaking and the warmth of the air. “There’s a basin of water over there,” she said. “Go and splash yourself. It’s likely warm, but hopefully a bit cooler than the air in here.”

He did as she suggested, and while it helped a bit, he decided they’d need a lot more water. He suffered through pulling on a robe so that he could go to the door and call for someone to bring more water to Lady Stark’s room—the cooler the better—so that they could prepare themselves for dinner.

Things were very easy between them as they poured water over each other and washed themselves off, laughing at the futility of it as they had to get dressed again. They managed to find the lightest clothing they owned which could decently be worn to a special occasion and parted with a kiss—Ned to take care of a few things in his solar and Catelyn to perform the far more thankless task of preparing five children appropriately for a feast. As he walked to his solar, it occurred to them that they often ended up making love after an argument—even the old arguments that they both knew would never truly be decided to either’s satisfaction. He supposed it was their way of assuring each other they remained connected—together—strong. Regardless of what things came between them. They had certainly gotten better at crossing the distance between them over the years even if they couldn’t completely eliminate all the causes of that occasional distance. 

The feast was enjoyable even if the Great Hall was sweltering. The children all seemed to watch him and Catelyn more closely than usual, and Ned wondered if their little council in the godswood had caused them to think about as many things as it had him. When dinner was finished, the children gave their mother their gifts. Ned had already given her his—the direwolf pendant she wore around her neck. After that tables were pushed back, and the few musicians in Winterfell began playing. Cat hadn’t wanted a large affair, so it was mostly just people of Winterfell present along with a few folks from Castle Cerwyn and Torrhen’s Square. Ned danced with his wife and his daughters and watched Catelyn dance with their sons and then one man after another—laughing when she had to dance to several songs in a row with Rickon in her arms because he was thoroughly tired of sharing his mother with everyone else. Ned rescued her from their son after the third or fourth dance like that because he knew precisely how heavy the two year old boy got after awhile. The child protested loudly, but then fell asleep in Ned’s arms almost immediately. He watched Catelyn get pulled into another dance with Robb, and noticed she didn’t even frown when Arya pulled Jon up to dance.

After a few moments, Ned walked outside to carry his youngest son back to the Great Keep and noted the air had grown even heavier and more oppressive. In the sky, he saw more of that odd lightning with no rain. “Just stay up there this night,” he muttered under his breath. 

After he’d settled Rickon in his cot and set someone to watch over him, he started back outside and heard a remarkably loud thunderclap followed shortly afterward by a rushing, roaring sound his brain took a few moments to identify. As soon as he realized what he was hearing, he ran down the staircase and out into the pouring rain. It felt glorious, and he just stood there and threw his head back and laughed. 

He heard other laughing voices and turned to walk toward the Great Hall where people were coming outside in great numbers. Some were dancing, some were jumping up and down, but everyone was smiling, heedless of the rain drenching their clothes. He spotted Catelyn being pulled outside by Arya and Bran—all three laughing. Sansa was spinning in circles with little Jeyne Poole. Robb and Jon were jumping as hard as they could into the deepest puddles they could find. 

“Cat!” he called out, forgetting all formality as he laughed there in the rain, struck by how beautiful his wife looked with her dress clinging tightly to her body and her auburn hair stuck to her face and neck and back in a dark red wet mass. 

“Ned!” she cried, dropping Arya’s and Bran’s hands to run to him. Her left foot sank into one puddle nearly up to her knee, but she simply laughed as she wobbled a little. He ran to meet her, putting his hands on her waist to make certain she didn’t fall.

“Happy Name Day, my love!” he shouted over the sound of the rain.

She laughed harder and threw her arms around him. Again forgetting all formalities, Ned pulled her in for a kiss unlike any he’d bestowed on her in a courtyard full of people before. He heard a few people make whooping noises, but he kept kissing his wife until he felt something small and wet crash into his hip. 

He looked down and saw that his younger daughter had thrown her skinny arms around both of them. “I’m glad you’re not a stupid song!” she said. 

Catelyn looked down at Arya in puzzlement, but Ned simply laughed as hard as he ever had.

Much later, after getting soaking wet clothing off multiple soaking wet children and chasing them all to their respective beds, Ned and Catelyn finally collapsed naked into her bed, their hair still wet and their skin still gloriously cool for what seemed to Ned the first time in far too long.

“Did you enjoy your name day after all?” he teased as she snuggled up against him.

“You know I did. What was going on with the children, though? Was I imagining things or were they staring at us all night? And what did Arya mean with that business about a song? You obviously found it very funny. Come to think of it, you were talking about life not being a song earlier.” She sat up and looked down at him. “What’s gotten into all of you today?”

Ned yawned, “Besides a large amount of rain water, you mean?”

“Ned!” 

He laughed and pulled her back down to him, proceeding to confess that he had accidentally happened to spy upon their children in the godswood and heard them discussing the new discovery by the younger three that she had once been betrothed to Brandon.

“Oh,” she said rather quietly after a moment. “Is that what prompted your questions earlier?”

He sighed and tightened his arms around her. “The questions are old. But listening to the children try to figure it out and then our conversation about the way I handled Robb and Jon . . . I suppose that did prompt me to ask now.”

She lay with her head on his chest and trailed her hand up and down his side slowly. “You could have asked any time, you know. I’ll answer your questions, Ned.”

He swallowed. She’d said it matter-of-factly. It wasn’t an accusation. But it still stung. Maybe that was one of the reasons he’d never asked her about Brandon. Having forbidden her to ask about Jon’s mother, he felt he’d forfeited the right to whatever secrets she may harbor. But she didn’t want to keep secrets from him. He wanted her to know that he didn’t want secrets between them either. In spite of the fact that he must keep one.

He turned her so that he could look at her face in the very dim light. “I will never again betray you, Cat. Nor do anything that I must keep from you. Know that I love you, my lady.”

She reached up to touch his face. “And know that I love you, my lord,” she whispered. 

Then she rose up above him to kiss him, and as she straddled him with her wet hair falling down over her shoulders to tickle his chest he knew he would not trade this life for any other. It was hard. They had lost people they loved. They sometimes hurt those they cared about. They had certainly hurt each other. They each had wounds the other couldn’t heal. Their life was complicated and, more often than he would like, even dangerous. As much as he wished that all days could be like this one, he knew winter would come. And with it, the cold, dark, dangerous times. No, life wasn’t a song.

But as his wife moved her body over his, once again pulling him into this dance he knew so well, this dance that needed no music, he was untroubled by that fact. He’d never much cared for songs anyway. To have this day, to have this moment, and the hope of other days and moments like it in this place with this woman and his children and all their people—he’d choose this every time, even knowing that winter is coming. The Starks endure because the Starks cherish life, not songs, and as he lost himself again in his wife’s caresses, Ned Stark knew he had a life worth cherishing.


End file.
